


You Overtake Me

by lemoninagin



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Drug Use, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Galaxy Garrison, M/M, Marijuana, Military Ranks, Pre-Canon, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 11:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10684671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoninagin/pseuds/lemoninagin
Summary: “You’re smoking marijuana on the roof of amilitary institution,” Shiro says, with a little more emphasis, letting his elbows flop out to the side.Keith rolls his eyes as he exhales, drawing closer than ever. Shiro’s caught between the palpable heat of his body and the door. Shiro’s eyes drift to the smoke, watching as it curls around Keith in the faint moonlight, accentuating the curve of his smile and the dark glint in his eyes.“Yeah, I am.” Keith nods, then holds out the bowl to him. “So do you want some, or what?”





	You Overtake Me

**Author's Note:**

> This title is stupid. Please ignore it.

 

Shiro learns very early on during his time at the Garrison, that his friend and fellow ‘cadet’ (up until about a month ago, at least), Keith Kogane, isn’t so much a troublemaker as he is someone who goes _looking_ for trouble.

 

It’s a distinction he feels is necessary to make, especially as reserved Keith, who often keeps to himself and generally doesn’t make any waves outside of his impressive simulation scores, is a livewire that can go off in seconds flat when it comes to something he’s passionate about.

 

He’s stumbled on Keith doing a few things these past few months that he -- someone who was recently promoted to officer ranking -- ought to report.

 

 _‘Ought to’_ being the key words. Despite his immaculately clean track record both academically and legally,  Shiro has found himself continuing to make exceptions for this man he can never seem to take his eyes off of.

 

Shiro has no issue with turning a blind eye to some things. He knows a little about the struggles Keith has gone through so far in his life, and in any case, their relationship is a discretion that’s better left with as few public interactions and reports between them as possible. Even though they’d been fairly casual friends before he got promoted, fraternizing with lower ranks was still generally frowned upon.

 

Shiro, although the golden poster boy at the Garrison and as straight laced as can be, cannot rationally explain what has happened to his priorities lately. As a general rule -- or lack thereof -- Shiro has ignored any and all stipulations when it comes to Keith.

 

Shiro can pardon the cigarettes, the random times he’s caught Keith with a hand-rolled stick hanging from his lips around a wide, cheeky smile. He can excuse the stash of malt liquor he once discovered in Keith’s dresser, not only because he liked that particular brand himself, but because well -- wouldn’t it only raise eyebrows when he had to explain how he’d stumbled upon something like that in a cadet’s private quarters in the first place?

 

He could deal with finding out Keith liked to sneak past curfew to take a joyride across the desert in the cool, evening air, technically stealing --- or what Keith called, ‘very brief borrowing’-- Garrison property to do so (and, in fact, Shiro may have even accompanied him a few times).

 

Of course, there was nothing to worry about when he straddled the motor-ship seat behind Keith, arms snug around his waist and chin tucked over his shoulder, breathing deeply into his wildly fanning-out hair as the wind skimmed across his bare arms. His cares all but melted away.

 

There was nothing wrong at all with the way Keith sometimes turned to him in those moments, eyes hinting mischief and face smug, and gave him a wink -- his only warning before he gunned the engine and plunged them into a sharp, adrenaline-inducing nosedive off some cliff or deep ravine.

 

The world would tip, the ground rushing fast towards them until Shiro’s heart was nothing more than a rapidly thudding beat lodged and fluttering in his throat. Then, Shiro’s screams from the thrill of it all would match Keith’s laughter to the point it was impossible to distinguish the sounds from each other against the private darkness of the night.

 

Some things just aren’t that cut and dry, Shiro supposes. And maybe, even though he logically _should_ be putting a stop to some of these things, he still can’t help but admit that maybe he is somewhat privy to playing favorites when Keith flutters those long lashes in his direction.

 

Most of the time, he’s too _weak_ , too knobbly-kneed with heat dropping low in his stomach around Keith. He’s powerless when Keith laughs, when he talks animatedly and lets his legs drift apart when they sit side-by-side, their thighs brushing together for that brief, head-spinning moment, in which Shiro isn’t so sure he could rightfully tell you his name if you asked him.

 

But this. This isn’t exactly something he can comprehend as easily.

 

Shiro steadies himself against the wall, only half-aware of the feeling of his hand upon the cold brick. Keith is there on the roof, their usual meeting spot around this time of night, but what he has clasped in his hand is as unfamiliar as it is prickling the hairs up at the nape of Shiro’s neck.

 

“You…” Shiro says in barely more than a whisper, looking around them quickly, sweat beading on his brow. The fact that no one is around -- and that no one is ever around on the roof at this hour anyway -- does absolutely nothing to deter his anxiety.

 

“You can’t _do_ that _here, Keith_ ,” Shiro scolds him, thoughts churning a million unpleasant scenarios, all which end with him either have his rank stripped away or being suspended due to a multitude of violations that will permanently scar his record.

 

Keith raises an eyebrow, thumb stalling on his lighter. In his other hand is a small pipe, packed tight with a pungent, green substance, which Shiro gets a nice whiff of when he slams the door shut behind him. He slides his back against it heavily, sighing as he looks at Keith and pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

“Well,” Keith shrugs his shoulders, looking at him as if he’s the crazy one, “I sure as hell can’t do it in my room.”

 

It’s apparently all Keith feels like is appropriate for a response, wrapping his hand a little tighter around the bowl. Shiro’s gaze is drawn to the movement, the curve of his fingers delicately cupping the more bulbous end of the thing. His thumb is poised over a tiny hole, which already has a few wisps of smoke curling from it.

 

Shiro knows the logistics of smoking marijuana. Well, he knows about the general idea, anyway, even though he’s never done it himself. All he can do is gape for a while, not in surprise, but a bit more in awe that Keith would be as bold as ever.

 

“What?” Keith asks, tilting his head to the side, a small stream of smoke drifting along with his words. He blows the rest of what he’s been holding purposefully forcefully, and Shiro panics further as he’s showered in a cloud of heady, sweet-smelling smoke. “You gonna rat me out, _Takashi_?”

 

“I--” Shiro starts, but stops, jamming his hands into his uniform’s pockets. His fingers twitch uselessly inside of them, wanting to maybe put a hand on Keith’s shoulder, but as usual, he’s already losing his nerve. Keith flashes him a grin, and brings the mouthpiece up to wrap his full, pink lips around it. Never once does he break eye contact through it all.

 

“You’re...smoking marijuana,” Shiro states, shifting his weight, not really sure where to go from there.

 

Keith’s gaze is intense, very focused on him. Shiro breaks it off, turning his head to the side and praying Keith can’t make out the flush of his cheeks through the dark.

 

“Mmm,” Keith hums, a throaty vibration over the glass, tugging smoke into his lungs. He inhales for a while. Shiro watches the clear glass fill until it’s completely white, and then as it empties about as suddenly, with Keith’s thumb fluttering over the hole a few times.

 

“You’re smoking marijuana on the roof of a _military institution_ ,” Shiro says, with a little more emphasis, letting his elbows flop out to the side.

 

Keith rolls his eyes as he exhales, drawing closer than ever. Shiro’s caught between the palpable heat of his body and the door. Shiro’s eyes drift to the smoke, watching as it curls around Keith in the faint moonlight, accentuating the curve of his smile and the dark glint in his eyes.

 

“Yeah, I am.” Keith nods, then holds out the bowl to him. “So do you want some, or what?”

 

Shiro’s heart is still thundering in his chest. The way Keith looks, so beautiful draped in smoke, all comfortably wrapped up in the forbidden air of the night and what they’re doing, is disorienting in a way he’s not sure he can recover from anytime soon.

 

“Well--” Shiro actually thinks about it. It only takes him a few minutes to come to a conclusion, because he’s finding it, yet again, hard to say no to Keith when he’s like this. “I’ve never, uh, you know...”

 

Keith’s smile never falters. He nods again in understanding, and Shiro feels bashful for other reasons now, for not having the courage to embarrass himself trying to smoke from a bowl when he’s never done it before.

 

Shiro thinks that might be the end of the conversation. Keith doesn’t say a word as he sidles up to him, until his nose is nearly touching Shiro’s chin. Reflexively, Shiro’s hands shoot from his pockets, and stupidly land on Keith’s shoulders. Keith smells nice, like waspy bits of smoke mixed with whatever musky cologne he uses.

 

Shiro winces, considers pulling away and stuttering out excuses for why he felt the need to do that. But he can’t get his body to obey his rational mind, and Keith only encourages him by allowing it without even flinching back.

 

If Keith is bothered by the contact or finds it weird, he doesn’t see the point in mentioning it. And it might just be his imagination running wild (or more likely the second-hand high that’s buzzing in his body already), but Shiro swears he pulls slightly closer into him.

 

“It’s fine. Do you want to, though?” Keith says, blowing a piece of rogue bangs away from his eyes, tapping the bowl with a fingernail. He really could use a haircut these days, but Shiro sure as hell isn’t going to suggest it.

 

Keith looks up from beneath the fringe of his hair, eyes lidded. “I can help.”

 

Shiro draws in a large breath. He doesn’t doubt that.

 

“I…” Shiro lets one of his fingers drag lightly towards Keith’s collar, smoothing the wrinkles from it. Keith rarely takes the time to iron his uniform, preferring to take the demerits for not having his attire completely up to code.

 

Shiro sighs. Caught between a rock and hard place, yeah -- probably not the best metaphor to use though, Shiro thinks, pressing his hips back as flush against the wall as he can. God, they’ve never been this close before.

 

“...Uh. Yeah, sure, why not.” He gives Keith’s shoulder a squeeze. “We’re already fucked if they find us, might as well have some fun I guess.”

 

Keith laughs, and Shiro couldn’t move even if he wanted to.

 

“...But afterwards, I’m writing you up _cadet_ , for _gross_ insubordination.” Shiro tries as hard as he can to sound serious and maybe even a little threatening, but he can’t hide the faint smile tugging up his face. Keith only stares at him, eyes stretching subtly wider. Shiro wonders if Keith is getting cold from the chilly air, because just then, he shivers against him.

 

Keith salutes him, though he’s staring downcast now. Shiro can still hear the roll of his eyes behind his words. “Yes, _sir_ ,” he grits, although playfully, “You can write me down for being irrevocably naughty as soon as we get back inside.”

 

Shiro almost considers running away after that. The knob of the door is poking near his back, and escape is only one quick step away. It wouldn’t be hard at all.

 

“Alright, let’s do this, then,” Keith breaks the silence, halting Shiro immediately from his thoughts and his plans to ditch out on whatever the fuck this even is anymore.

 

Keith’s thumb rolls over the spark wheel of his lighter, and Shiro watches the flame spring to life.

 

“Just close your eyes, and I’ll take care of the rest. When you can feel the smoke, inhale as hard as you can, and just hold it. Got it?”

 

Shiro knows where he’s seen that look in his eyes before, memories flashing back to moving at breakneck speed across the desert, his body molded to Keith’s like they were made for each other. Shiro nods slowly, exhaling the breath stuck in his throat, and Keith seems satisfied with that.

 

Shiro lets some of tension slide from his shoulders. His fingers are shaking over the lapel of Keith’s uniform. His hands slide slowly to Keith’s waist, light and testing with his fingers splayed on his hipbones. He closes his eyes, prepares for Keith to light the bowl for him.

 

There isn’t anything at first. There’s only the gentle shuffling of the breeze, the fruity smell all around them, the inviting warmth of Keith’s knee worming its way between his thighs. Then there’s a soft _click,_ and Shiro’s stomach drops _._

 

Nothing is shoved between his lips, though. He can make out the sound of Keith taking another hit, and Shiro furrows his brows, keeping his eyes closed tight if only to keep the illusion of following Keith’s orders.

 

“Keith, what are you--”

 

Shiro is cut short by the press of something much softer, much wetter than glass against his lips. His fingers curl into the hem of Keith’s uniform as Keith cups his chin, turning it down to better be able to kiss him, and the world fades away into a cloud of smoke.

 

Shiro’s other hand flies to the doorknob, not to escape -- fuck, no -- but for purchase, before his legs give out entirely. Keith works his mouth over him slowly, with such ease and patience as if they’ve done this a thousand times before. It feels comfortable, familiar, like being wrapped up in the sweetest fog. Shiro is no longer aware of what anxiety even is.

 

When Keith coaxes Shiro to part his lips, the smoke finally hits him, spiking into his lungs about as carefully as Keith has been handling him. He tries his best to focus on what Keith told him, inhaling abruptly and making a weak attempt to hold it, but it’s hard when a tongue he’s longed to feel on his own for so long now is snaking into his mouth.

 

He chokes a little, gasping at both the pain of the smoke and Keith’s skilled tongue sliding against his own. Smoke billows around them. Shiro’s eyes flutter open just in time to catch the image of Keith, flushed to the tips of his ears, right as he pulls away. Instantly, he wants to pull him back, to let the smoke continuing being exchanged between them.

 

Laughing, Keith rests his head against Shiro’s chest, muffling the sound into his uniform. “So…” He says, picking his head up when he’s had his fill of listening to Shiro cough for a few minutes. “How do you feel?”

 

“Amazing,” Shiro breathes, feeling a heaviness beginning to crawl up into his forehead, around his eyes. His throat hurts, but after the coughing subsided, he feels much better -- lighter than air, really.

 

“I…” Shiro looks down, notices his palm still at the curve of Keith’s hip. He pulls him forward, until Keith’s flush against him, the way it was meant to be.

 

“You’re amazing,” is all he can manage, staring at the color of Keith’s hair, so seamlessly black in the night that he looks like he’s merged with it. Shiro can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

 

Keith sighs, something satisfied that resounds deep from his throat, almost like a purr. He nuzzles into Shiro’s neck, breath dewy on the skin where the top button of his collar is undone.

 

“You’re not bad yourself,” he says quietly, pocketing the lighter and bowl, “ _Sir_.”

 

When Keith kisses him again, Shiro swears he can still feel the smoke in his lungs.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this high as balls. Happy 420, nerds
> 
> Puff puff pass the gay
> 
>  
> 
> i asked twitter what ship they wanted to shotgun. sheith was the resounding answer, and i couldn't be more happy about it tbh


End file.
